His face burned. He had to nip this problem in the bud. He’d go find the chit—she’d likely come from the musicale—and ascertain whether she knew his identity. If she did… well, he’d come up with some plausible explanation for his behavior. Somehow.
Cursing, he strode off to get dressed—and to contain yet another scandal.
Chapter Three
Polly hurried back to the musicale, her mind and senses awhirl. It was intermission, and under the watchful eyes of the attendants, the patients were docilely filing into a line in front of the refreshment table. Before Polly had a chance to collect herself, Rosie cornered her by the door.
“There you are. You missed the first part of my performance,” Rosie said with a pout. “Where did you wander off to?”
“Sorry. I had to get some air,” Polly mumbled.
“You’re flushed.” Rosie’s pique faded. “Are you feeling unwell?”
She didn’t knowwhatshe was feeling. Shocked, afraid… tingly all over. What she’d encountered in the bathhouse had been the most depraved thing she’d seen in her entire life. That man—what he’d beendoing! Lying by the side of the Roman bath, he’d appeared like a young Bacchus come to life, wicked and entirely unabashed in his steam-glazed decadence.
The torchlight had burnished his mahogany hair, kissed the divinely handsome contours of his face. He had the body of a god, too: beneath his taut skin, sleek muscles had rippled with unmistakable power. His chest had resembled cut slabs of granite, no hint of softness save for the sprinkling of bronze hair. That trail of hair had drawn her gaze downward like a magnet toward the lean ridges of his abdomen, past the prominent vee of muscle girdling his hips, to his…
She swallowed, her mouth dry. She’d seen sculptures of the nude male form, but apparently they didn’t accurately depict that part of a man’s anatomy—at least not this man’s. Heavens, his male equipment more resembled that of the mythical satyr: larger than life… beyond shocking! She saw again the wicked pumping of his fist, the animal pulsing of his aura, and a wave of dizziness washed over her.
“Gracious, now you look positively feverish. Shall I fetch you some lemonade?” Rosie said.
“No. I’m fine.” Her quivering voice and insides contradicted her.
“It’s me—your bosom chum and sister, remember?” Rosie’s hands planted on her hips. “Out with it, Pols.”
Polly gnawed on her lower lip. How on earth could she describe what she barely comprehended herself? How could she put into words the depraved behavior that she’d witnessed?
Then it occurred to her: the fellow must beinsane. Of course. He was at Mrs. Barlow’s for a reason after all. Perhaps he’d lost control over himself—over his animal impulses. Polly had heard tales of madmen barking at the moon. Might the poor man be afflicted with a similar canine delusion? Dogs, after all, were in the habit of licking themselves in unmentionable areas, and what he’d been doing was sort of similar, wasn’t it?
He must be a lunatic, she reasoned with relief. It was the only plausible explanation for his unnatural behavior. And if he’d unleashed strange sensations in her—she felt shivery and shaky, a hot viscosity coating her insides—well, anysaneperson would feel discomfited.
Expelling a breath, she said, “I saw someone acting, um, oddly is all.”
Rosie snorted. “Given the setting, that’s hardly—”
A loud crash cut off the rest of her sentence. Polly started, her gaze jerking toward the refreshment table to their left. A wooden platter lay on the floor, cheese scattered around it, grapes rolling off like marbles. The cause of the disarray appeared to be one of the patients: the young ginger-haired man she’d noticed earlier.
“I don’t want any cheese!” he yelled. “It’s full of poison! You’re trying to kill me!”
A murmur rose from the other patients. A few spat out their food.
“Calm yourself, Kirkham.” A burly attendant approached him, hands raised. “You don’t want to disrupt the party. Why don’t you and I have a chat outside?”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” Kirkham’s eyes were wild, like those of a hunted creature. He grabbed a pitcher, threw it down, glass exploding into shards at his feet. “You don’t want to chat. You want to throw me in the coffin and fill it up with water! You want to kill me, you want to kill all of us!”
Patients were looking at each other, nodding, whispers getting louder.
Someone shouted, “You tell ’em, Kirkham!”
Mrs. Barlow pushed her way through the crowd to stand next to the attendant.
“For God’s sake, Lubbock,” she snapped at the guard, “get a hold of him.”
Desperation oozed from Kirkham in waves of yellow-brown. He suddenly crouched and came up with a large shard of glass in his hand. Blood trickled from his palm, matching the red aggression in his aura.
“Put that down,” Lubbock ordered. “Don’t make this harder on yourself.”
“You want to murder me—well, I won’t make it easy for you!” Kirkham swung the makeshift weapon in a wild arc.
